


the argument I wouldn't want to win

by createhappiness



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: A lot of feels, F/F, Marisa is a puppy who just needs some support, Mary's the most caring and considerate person you've ever met, TW: rape trauma, at some point they talk about The Lumineers, feminism talks, guess what the three most perfect words in the world are, her past is not that ideal either, just two gals gaypanicking over each other A LOT, no daemon in this one, not very explicit but be careful, pre-maryisa, pre-marysa, religion talk too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/createhappiness/pseuds/createhappiness
Summary: She clings to Mary's embrace, warm and safe, and it feels so much better than any argument she's ever won.Or three times they need to hold each other in one night because the world is cruel (and probably because they really enjoy smelling each other's hair too).
Relationships: Marisa Coulter & Mary Malone, Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	the argument I wouldn't want to win

**Author's Note:**

> *TW once again: there are some things said about rape trauma and the aftermath of it, so if you don't feel comfortable with it, please do not continue!  
> **Feel free to point out any mistakes or/and typos.

Marisa Coulter finds great delight in arguing. Marisa Coulter finds even greater delight in being right and imperturbable and not caring about other people's emotions. And maybe it's because she does, or maybe the reason is all the fascinated looks Mary has given her and all the excited questions she's asked, they end up arguing all the same.

At least Marisa does. Mary is surprisingly still and silent, and her deep blue eyes are shining in the bright light of her desk lamp. She's sitting at her own desk in their now-shared office, listening to Marisa's hot-hearted monologue, and she doesn't speak. Marisa finds her mind inescapably wandering.

She talks about all the injustice in her Oxford, in her whole world really, all the misogyny and insults she's had to pretend not to notice to get where she is — was — and about how this perfect world Mary's imagined and is so excited about and enthralled by is not that perfect by any means. "This is not a nice, wonderful dream you get there, Mary. This is a nightmare," she finishes, and she should feel so proud of herself for winning this important, stupid argument. Except she doesn't.

Instead, she's thinking about a possible reason for Mary's silence. She remembers a student who came by earlier today and gave her such a headache she had to take two pills instead of her usual one. She remembers that Mary has already drunk three cups of coffee today but didn't have any time to eat, which usually makes her upset and dizzy. She looks at the lamp on her desk — the one on the other side of the room, the one she so selflessly chose, quick to give Marisa the place near the window — and remembers that one time Mary told her she hated ceiling lights and preferred working by lamplight. _Not that one, you silly billy,_ Marisa tells herself and keeps looking for a possible reason the woman could be so quiet today. She doesn't find any, so she sighs heavily and looks Mary in the eye, giving up. They've never turned on the ceiling lights since then, she thinks.

"Are you done?" Mary's voice is soft, it always is with Marisa, but her look is firm and her eyes don't crinkle the way they usually do. Marisa hates it; she pinches herself for hating it.

"I am," it comes out stubborn and almost cold. "Are you ready to begin?" She's often been called a quarrelsome person, though she's never quite regretted it until this very moment.

Mary stands up, walks around her desk, and leans on it, her hands clasped in front of her. Clicking her tongue, she says calmly, "I'm sorry if I offended you. I didn't mean to hurt you or bring something unpleasant up, just as I wasn't trying to get into an argument with you." The look in her eyes makes Marisa suspect the woman knows that _she_ was. Nevertheless, Mary doesn't dwell on that. "I was just curious," she says next. "I find out that there is another world, worlds even, and it's natural for me to think about them, to imagine them in my head. I just-" she waves her hand, uncertain of how to shape her thoughts into appropriate, understandable sentences. Then, she nods (at her or at herself, Marisa isn't quite sure anymore). "I think I just want to learn something new about them, the way that you learned how to use a microwave and read e-books. It was nice, wasn't it?"

Marisa opens her mouth to argue, but Mary waves her hand once again, "Don't deny it, it was nice. I saw you singing along to The Lumineers when I gave you those headphones." Marisa's eyes widen in surprise, and she hangs her head. The other woman sees her reaction and clicks her tongue again, this time warmly, "I don't mean to make you feel embarrassed by what you do or like. I love The Lumineers too. You know, I bought a ticket for their concert once and-"

She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opens them, her expression is clear and determined. "What I want to say is," she begins once again, coming closer to Marisa and taking her hand; it's cold, Marisa's hands always are, and she rubs it to warm it up a little, "I'm a scientist. It's in my bones, just like it is in yours. And it's not always I can resist a mystery, even if sometimes I'm absolutely clueless about how it makes people around me feel. Will you forgive me?" She rubs another hand, and Marisa can't but nod at this impossible, captivating woman in front of her.

Marisa wants to stare at her in disbelief, she really does. The most ridiculous thing about this all, however, is that she can believe it. She can believe that Mary — _kind, considerate, wonderful Mary_ — would say something like that. So she nods, and nods, and nods until she feels dizzy and her vision is only a bit blurred. There's a hint of a smile on her lips, and Mary gives her a smile of her own; it's wide and toothy, and her eyes finally crinkle, so Marisa lets herself take a deep breath and calm down. There isn't a person in the whole world she wants to fight with less than with Mary.

Mary, who looks her right in the eye and whispers genially, "And Marisa?" They hold each other's gaze as she continues, "You mustn't pinch yourself every time you feel things. We've talked about this. Let them be. Let yourself be. All right?"

Marisa clears her throat, "I suppose I can at least try." She doesn't promise things to anyone, not yet, though Mary doesn't seem to need it. "Can I hug you now?" She asks instead, and Marisa feels like her entire world is collapsing; her whole life spent in boarding schools and the dark walls of the Magisterium, her infinite, endless search for something that would make her visible, for someone who'd make her feel, for Lyra — it all fades away; it's stories, nightmares from another life because there's someone thoughtful and tender-hearted, someone who's willing to listen, and understand, and accept all that she's done and does (she's been yearning for forgiveness for so long, and it's only now she understands acceptance is what she really needed to get better, to _become_ better), and she melts.

She wouldn't admit to it if asked, but she melts. Her heart is so unusually full, and for the first time in years, she feels so alive, so eternally blessed to live in that simple moment. She clings to Mary's embrace, warm and safe, and it feels so much better than any argument she's ever won. Mary's hair smells like honey and chamomile, and it's probably the definition of home she's going to carry with her from now on.

**

Neither of them knows how long they have been standing there, embracing each other, but the moment they pull away it seems the world is going to end. It doesn't, _of course it doesn't, you silly billy_ ; but Marisa's hands are cold again and the scent of honey seems too distant, inexistent even. She wants it back the way it was, the way they were. She doesn't ask for it.

Instead, Mary goes to turn the kettle on and makes them tea — green for herself and a cup of hibiscus tea for Marisa, the same one she tried that very first time in Mary's office — and then they sit and drink it together. The office is silent, and the air is light; a half-smile is playing on Mary's lips, and Marisa is studying her features somewhat absentmindedly. Her hair is unbrushed, she notices, yet it seems the softest hair she's ever laid her eyes on, her smile is gentle yet serious.

Mary clears her throat to speak. Marisa blinks. She sees the woman's mouth open, but not a single sound comes out, and then Mary sighs and puts her face in her hands to gather her thoughts. It amazes Marisa every single time, the way she's not afraid of being seen as vulnerable or unorganised, and how it takes her just a little longer than other people to put what she wants to say into words. It's endearing just as it is enthralling, almost being able to see the sentences shaping in the back of her mouth.

"I want to tell you a story," it comes out quiet and honest, and Marisa blinks once again, her trance breaking. She often gets carried away these days, with nobody breathing down her neck or trying to stub her in the back. The smile on her face is encouraging albeit barely visible, but Mary knows it wouldn't have been there a year ago, or even two months ago, which means they're making progress (which _also_ means she can trust Marisa with something so personal, so raw and unsettling that she hasn't told anyone in her entire life).

The atmosphere in the room changes, or maybe Mary just imagines it after her palms start itching and her head feeling heavy as hell. She is not going to back down, though, so she takes her blazer off, chuckling awkwardly when one of her arms gets stuck. It makes her all fidgety, the way she's embarrassing herself in front of the most composed, the most graceful person she's ever met, and her heart skips a beat the moment she sees Marisa's look. It's somewhat between amusement and inexplicable fondness, and Marisa hesitates a single second before putting her hand on Mary's. The touch is almost weightless, but it instantly puts Mary at such ease it both terrifies and fascinates her. She nods, and Marisa's hand is back on her own lap, and her eyes are shining enchantingly, and Mary finally speaks.

"When you first came here, you were, well, not _particularly excited,_ but captivated by the way things worked. I saw it in your eyes when you heard a computer speak for the first time or the day I told you what takeaway food was. You walked into another world, and suddenly you saw that women could go and get their degrees and that every other book in bookshops had a female name on it. It surprised you, and it enthralled you, and somehow you deduced everything here was so much _easier_ than in your world," she can practically feel Marisa's stare on her skin, and it almost makes her shiver. Almost. "I reckon that some things really are, but what you should know, what I've never actually told you is that it hasn't always been like that. Some sixty years ago the situation we were in and the rights we had weren't much better than those in your world," she sighs, the tone of her voice still quiet, still tender, "but the reason it only ever changed is that women raised and fought the system.”

Marisa’s look is disbelieving, and Mary can easily determine all the emotions reflecting in her eyes. Confusion. Realisation. Anger. So much anger she wants nothing more than to soothe it, nothing more than to hug her and never let go of her again.

 _They fought the system_ echoes in Marisa’s mind again and again, and she’s feeling the headache building up (at Mary’s words or at her own racing thoughts, she isn’t sure), and it hurts. She feels as if the mere thought of it could really, finally kill her.

She longs for a candle because physical pain is the only thing that’s ever saved her from being driven crazy by her own thoughts. There are no candles in the office, _she knows it,_ Mary gave them all away the day Marisa told her about what she’d been using them for, _of course she knows it_. Somehow, words and events don’t make sense anymore, and she shivers at the feeling of being so helpless in front of somebody else.

But it’s only Mary — Mary who’s already been through so much with her; Marisa tries to focus on her soothing voice, which feels closer and closer with every passing second. Marisa’s thoughts are all bitter and raw, she thinks about how she’s been fighting her entire life, for this and for that, and could never even dream about fighting — and defeating— the Authority. Nobody has ever been able to change the system in her world. Mary’s gently holding her hand and saying she is safe. Maybe she’s been fighting the wrong way altogether. Mary’s voice is even closer now, the sound of it hugs Marisa’s very being, and she finds herself taking a deep breath. Maybe she had to fight not against all the women she’s ever come across but with them. Mary tells her she is a good girl. She hasn’t been called a good girl in a long time; hearing it calms her, and she blinks slowly, finally seeing the office and the face in front of her properly. She can’t help feeling like she’s just woken up, her head splitting.

Marisa thinks it’s ugly and humiliating, what’s just happened; Mary hugs her and tells her it’s okay.

**

"Do you know why I became a nun?" No one does, not a single soul, but she still asks, giving Marisa time to think about it.

"I suppose the answer is not the most obvious one," she replies and is met with a nod.

"It isn't. People are always surprised by how strong, how powerful one's love for God should be to join a monastery. In some cases, it is. In some cases, the devotion you feel is incomprehensible and so huge it makes you do things that transform your life completely, for better or for worse. I respect your faith, of course I do, but the truth is," she takes a deep breath, "it was never mine."

Marisa frowns, not understanding just yet, but doesn't speak. Mary smiles. "I never believed in God the way I was expected to. There was something, sure; something that amazed me and made me want to understand, but I only ever relied on logic and proof, and nobody was really able to prove such an entity ever existed."

For a second, Mary's silent again, and Marisa can swear there's the slightest gleam of tears in the corner of her eyes. Then, she shifts, all of a sudden the light falls differently on her face, and there's no sign she's on the verge of crying anymore. Marisa thinks she must have imagined it. "Then why did you become a nun?"

The question sends shivers down Mary's spine; she stands up and walks around the office, eventually stopping to face the bookshelves only a few feet away from Marisa's desk. "When I was twenty years old," watching her profile, Marisa sees the way Mary's biting her lip anxiously and gulps, "I was assaulted. Sexually."

After that comes silence, while Mary's waiting for the words to sink in; Marisa stares at her own hands, not quite sure of what to say or how to say it properly. In the end, she doesn't, and Mary continues, "It was someone from my university class. I stayed late that day, studying in the room we had our last class of the day in. He just walked in, saying he had forgotten something, and then, in the blink of an eye, I was on the table." Her voice is low and hoarse, but she doesn't cry when she turns her front to Marisa. There's strength in her eyes instead and such a strange mix of meekness and rebellion Marisa can't help but feel proud of this incredible, astounding person and so very grateful for being considered worthy of telling her this.

"Did you think it was your fault? Because you stayed late?" It is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, the first thing she was taught to ask herself when she was a little girl. Mary's shoulders tense, but what she sees in the other woman's eyes is curiosity, not judgment, so she lets it be. She comes closer to Marisa and sits once again.

"I didn't. But that didn't change anything," she shrugs, and it's bitter, and Marisa feels an enormous wave of anger washing over her. "I didn't feel safe anymore, neither at home nor at university, because every day I went there, and I sat at that same classroom, staring at that same dialogue table where we all had to face each other, and I looked at his face and felt sick every time he smiled at me. He didn't so much as get community service because his father had supplied the police station with new equipment. They told me he was such a promising student and I shouldn't ruin his future like this, but nobody ever cared that he'd ruined mine first," Mary's jaw clenches, and her gaze seems distracted and almost empty, while Marisa's is burning with rage.

"I studied to be a journalist, you know," Mary tiredly runs her fingers through her hair. "I was the best in my class, I had the most amazing plans, and I loved writing so, so much. But after that," she gulps audibly and rubs her eyes with her fingers, "every time I sat down to write an article, all I could write about was that day; I didn't even think about it, I'd start writing about assisted living facilities or local charities and get carried away. It wasn’t uncommon, really, but every time I woke up, I realised all I'd written came down to this one day," the chuckle she lets out is dry, and her hands are trembling ever so slightly. Marisa puts her hand on top of hers, this time without hesitating; Mary smiles gratefully.

"I got through two weeks or so, although deeply in my heart I knew right away that I wasn't going to make it. And how could I?" She laughs, but the laugh seems a little too broken for Marisa’s taste. The fist of her other hand clenches as she already hates this excuse for a man. "I didn't even feel safe in my own body anymore, and I didn't talk about it because," she takes a sharp intake of breath, "my mum had been sick since I was a little girl. My dad had been through a lot with her, so I just didn't want them to worry about me too, you know?"

She isn't expecting an answer, Marisa can see it, but she still nods and says through the lump in her throat, "You can talk about this whenever you feel like it."

Mary’s frown becomes less apparent and her expression lighter. They both breathe out at the same time, chuckling at that right away. The realisation of what’s been shared today in these walls is still to dawn on them in full force, but for now, Mary tells her more about the monastery she joined, how it was the only place where she could hope to feel protected again — there were no men, she explains then, and Marisa gasps — and how, despite the fact she didn't believe in God, it still changed her perspective on life forever.

Marisa feels surprised, amazed even, by the way Mary speaks about it; she's calm and tranquil, and her hands don’t shake a bit anymore. She remembers the day in Boreal's flat when all she could think about was how this woman seemed to have everything she could ever wish for, and how angry and restless it made her feel. Her anger fuels her, always has, and she wouldn't trade it for the world. But the way Mary's mildness doesn't seem to make her any less strong almost makes her believe there could be another way.

"May I hug you?" she finds herself asking and only then realising she’s interrupted the woman mid-sentence. "Oh, I’m so sorry," and why does she have to be so socially awkward when it comes to displays of affection? It seems to come naturally to Mary, but _she,_ she just has to go and make a fool of-

"Yes please," Mary’s smile is wide, which tells her she knows _exactly_ what Marisa was thinking. "Come here already."

They both stand up, and it feels like a ceremony, considering how seriously both of them take it. Marisa’s the one to shorten the distance between them this time. She slowly reaches out and rests her hands on Mary’s back, her face in the crook of Mary’s neck. For a second, her breath hitches at the familiar scent of honey, and she relaxes instantly.

Mary’s relaxed too; she lets herself play with Marisa’s hair and bask in the softness of her skin. The day comes to its end, and in the darkness of the night, she sees a silhouette of a couple hugging in the street. It makes her smile, and she closes her eyes, satisfied.

"What was his name?" Marisa asks into their embrace.

The question takes Mary by surprise, and she shifts to look at her. "Why do you want to know?" She thinks she already knows the answer, and the anger that’s still hiding in the depth of Marisa’s gleaming eyes is all the confirmation she needs. "You're not going to kill him," Mary tells her sternly.

"I wasn't!" Marisa exclaims, just a second too soon. "I was going to pray for him, you know. For a car that would hit him to death, for example," she shrugs as if it wasn't that big of a deal, but her shoulders are tense because, even after all this time, sometimes she still finds herself waiting for the judgment to come.

"Oh, Marisa," Mary’s voice seems kind and gentle, as always, and she hugs her even more tightly, chuckling into her neck and whispering, "thank you, love." Marisa tries to ignore the shivering feeling in her entire body; Marisa, as it always is with Mary, fails.

"But don’t you want him to pay? Don’t you want him to… suffer?" She wonders, astonished.

The sigh Mary lets out sends shivers down Marisa's neck. "I did. I did for so long that I forgot how it felt to live without the burden I was carrying," there’s a moment of silence, and the other woman ponders over the words. Mary knows it strikes Marisa when she says, "What I want now is to heal and move on. To have complete control over my body and mind. Could we do that?" The last phrase is a whisper, that sounds suspiciously like an offer, and her hands tense around Marisa’s figure.

She isn’t sure if she should pull away; Marisa’s hands ease on her back, and maybe, just maybe, that’s how it all is supposed to end. It's no secret to Mary the woman has always found her too weak, too mild, and _this_ , them standing in their office at night, Mary looking longingly out the window, seeing the two people they were never going to be in the first place, might as well be the last straw.

She’s lost in her thoughts when Marisa opens her mouth to speak and Mary feels her body shift. This is it, she tells herself.

"All right then," is the answer she hears.

Mary does all she can not to shudder right there and then, hearing the three most perfect words in the world. She exhales, relieved, and begs her racing heart to calm down at once. She isn’t going anywhere, _you silly billy._


End file.
